


Thirty Pieces

by LydianNode



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Gen, Language, alcohol use, mention of marital infidelity, post-ep for the "four million dollars" scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-28
Updated: 2019-01-28
Packaged: 2019-10-18 13:12:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17581493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LydianNode/pseuds/LydianNode
Summary: "So, Brian 'darling," John continues, seething, "if you'll spare me the recycled platitudes from the man who just sold us for four million dollars, or thirty pieces of silver, or whatever--""Stop it!" shouts Roger, his hands contracting into fists. He wants to punch someone or something, and he's afraid that John's jaw will be the first thing he hits. "Just fucking stop it! If we start tearing each other to bits, we're done for!"After Freddie's announcement of the CBS deal, the rest of Queen try to piece their lives back together.





	Thirty Pieces

Roger once joked that he didn't think Freddie's house had a pronounced enough echo.

It's not a joke now, because the walls resonate with Freddie's cruel words.

_...drumming twelve-eight time blues at the weekend the Crown and Anchor...author of a fascinating dissertation on the cosmos that no one ever reads...for the life of me, nothing comes to mind...I don't need anyone...  
_

Through the heat of his fresh anger, Roger looks over at Brian. He's tapping on his lips with his index finger they way he always does when he's trying to concentrate but can't set aside the pain in his heart.

Roger can't see John's face, but the slump of his shoulders and the droop of his head are as eloquent as speech.

How the fuck did they get to this point? Roger turns his head to look at the lavishly decorated dining room. It'd been empty the day Freddie had all but begged him to stay for dinner. Would things have gone differently if Roger had agreed to their banquet on the floor instead of going home? Had he created Schrödinger's Dining Room?

He hears himself laugh, high and thready, and he claps his hand over his mouth to stop the sound. John turns around, a worried frown creasing his face. "We should go," he says softly.

"What, before this gets worse?" Roger spits. He strips off his jacket and flings it to the ground. Prenter had touched it. It's cursed, leprous, and he never wants to see it, or this house, or fucking Freddie fucking Mercury ever, ever again.

"Rog." Brian's voice is soft, but there's a crack in it, a fissure where his love for Freddie used to be. He stands up, wearily, and gives John a hand off of the sofa. John fumbles for his keys. He had driven them over, having answered Freddie's summons without knowing that they were going to their own executions.

Fuck all of this.

Brian's hand is at the small of Roger's back, guiding him to the door. John takes a last look around, as if he hopes Freddie will jump out from behind some furniture and shout that he was just taking the piss, that he loves them all and has organised a group vacation to Tahiti.

But that's just fantasy.

The reality is that they pile into John's car, careful not to step or sit on any of his kids' toys, and drive out of Kensington with no plan in mind. They can't go to any of their homes, can't bear having to explain to their wives that their band has just broken up, or to tell the kids that they'll probably never see their beloved Uncle Freddie again.

Roger leans into the front seat, between John and Brian, and gives them an address in Chelsea. It's the flat where he takes various girls when domestic life feels like a straitjacket, or where he goes to be alone when he can't stand the noises in his head anymore. The phone there is unlisted, and the neighbors are well paid for their discretion.

He can see John's disapproving expression in the rear-view mirror. But they go there anyway. John pulls in front of the building and parks at Roger's direction, then they all get out and climb the stairs to the third floor. At least the place is tidy - Roger hasn't required his bolthole for a week or so, and the cleaners have been - so there's nothing to be embarrassed about, no incriminating toiletries or lingerie left in a corner somewhere. It looks like any normal flat belonging to someone who's not a rock star, other than the vast display of expensive alcohol.

"Drinks?" Roger suggests, although it's closer to a statement. Brian grunts something that sounds affirmative. He doesn't need to ask John, who is always, always up for booze the way Roger is always up for sex and Brian is always up for putting guitar solos on any track that isn't kept under lock and key.

Not that it'll be much of a problem anymore, Roger thinks as he pulls vodka from the freezer and grabs three glasses. There's already a nice scotch on the table, Roger's current preference, along with a bottle of the brandy he favours when he craves oblivious sleep.

They pour their own generous portions from the various bottles. Brian and John sit side by side on the loveseat, the only chair in the room, so Roger leans against the wall and watches them. John raises his glass, squinting, and proposes an acrimonious toast: "To unemployment."

"Deacy," groans Brian, "don't."

"Why not? It's true, isn't it?" He downs a significant amount of his drink then places the glass on his knee, staring into the contents as if consulting an oracle. "At least for me. Not a lot of work out there for non-singing bass players." When he looks up again, his eyes are dim. Lost. "You two will probably do all right, at least."

"I don't know, man," Roger says with a shrug. "I've had solo stuff in the can for yonks and it's not likely to go anywhere."

Brian huffs in disbelief. "That's bollocks, Roger. You'd be the frontman in any other band in the world!"

A wave of fondness washes over Roger. It's not enough to cleanse the wounds Freddie has inflicted, but it's still some consolation that Brian - the most demanding perfectionist amongst demanding perfectionists - has that level of confidence in him. He sighs and stretches, not meeting either man's gaze. He's flirted with other bands the way he flirts with other women, and the results have been every bit as unfulfilling. "But any other band's not Queen," he murmurs.

"Maybe the three of us should record together, start our own band. Call ourselves 'Princess' or 'Duchess,'” John opines, humourless. He pours himself another drink and slumps in his chair. "Brian, don't try to tell me you haven't worked on enough material for at least one album of your own."

"I won't tell you that, John, because you know damn well I have and you know damn well that I've asked you to play on every single track." Brian's glare is watered down by how quickly he's been drinking, but it's still sharp enough. "And you've played for Roger as well. There's no reason for that to change. You know we'll always take care of you."

_Oh, God, this isn't going to end well.  
_

Roger isn't sure if John is going to cry or throw Brian off the loveseat. John inhales sharply through his nose and lets the air out slowly between tight, trembling lips. He doesn't look at Brian. "I may have toddlers at home, but I'm NOT one. I don't need caretaking."

"That's not what I--"

"And I don't need your fucking PITY, either!" It's a shout, unusual from John, which renders it all the more horrifying. He looks as surprised as the rest of them, his face going scarlet for a moment before all the colour drains out. He slams the glass harder on the table than he needs to.

Brian is leaning over, scruffing his curly hair until it's almost twice its normal size. "That's not what I meant," he says, "and I'm sorry if that's how it came out." When he turns to John, his eyes are full of regret. "The last thing in the world I want to do is to hurt you or make you think I don't admire the hell out of you."

Roger has heard those words, more or less, somewhere before, but he can't quite remember where. Evidently John does, because he snickers and shakes his head. "That's what HE said." Brian looks confused by John's words. "Freddie. When we had to erase your stuff from 'Sheer Heart Attack' because you'd been so sick. That's almost verbatim what he told you."

Oh.

"Is it?" Brian blinks a few times. "To be honest, most of that year is a fog. Painkillers, and all."

Ah, now Roger remembers it clearly. How could he have forgotten the look of absolute betrayal in Brian's eyes when they told him they'd had to wipe everything he'd done? He recalls Freddie as he was in those times, compassionate and generous and positive, so confident that Brian would get better and be able to re-record everything to his usual standard, reassuring him that there was no need to call in a favour from Jimmy or Eric or anyone.

He wants that Freddie back.

"So, Brian 'darling," John continues, seething, "if you'll spare me the recycled platitudes from the man who just sold us for four million dollars, or thirty pieces of silver, or whatever--"

"Stop it!" shouts Roger, his hands contracting into fists. He wants to punch someone or something, and he's afraid that John's jaw will be the first thing he hits. "Just fucking stop it! If we start tearing each other to bits, we're done for!"

John stops, wide-eyed, as he contemplates what he's been saying. Brian leans over and covers his face with his hands. "Jesus, just listen to us," he mourns, his words muffled by his palms. "I don't want to finish what Freddie started; I don't want to kill this band. And I swear, John, I don't want to patronise you, that's--"

"I know." John's tone is dark. "I'm feeling a little..." he shrugs and takes another drink. "I think I'm in shock, frankly." He reaches out, pats Brian's knee, and leaves his hand there. "I think we all are."

When Brian lifts his head to catch Roger's eyes the movement is slow and effortful, as if the weight of Brian's thoughts is too much to carry. Roger tries to offer encouragement but he knows that his smile is more like a death's-head grimace. Slowly, as if moving underwater, Brian puts one hand on top of John's. "I'm still sorry."

Some of the defensive, angry set of John's posture softens. "Quite the red-letter day - Freddie selling us out AND apologies from Brian, who'd have thought?" He turns his hand over, palm upward, and squeezes Brian's fingers. John doesn't offer his own apology, not in words, but Brian seems to recognize the gesture for what it is as he squeezes back.

"I can't help hoping he'll change his mind." Brian winces as the words leave his lips. He has to know how pathetic he sounds. "We're his family, no matter what he said today in anger."

"You think he's likely to come crawling back to us on hands and knees? FREDDIE?" Roger scoffs. "And even if it were likely, I have no intention of waiting about for that arsehole."

"I agree with Roger." John gives Brian's hand another squeeze. "I know you still love him. God only knows why, but I do, too. But now I realise that we can't trust him anymore. Even if he did come back - and that's years off, if ever - he'd just leave us again."

Roger feels a sudden, inexplicable chill and lets out a surprised gasp. Brian and John both turn to him, questions in their eyes. Roger looks down as he shrugs. "Sorry. Goose walked over my grave or something." He scrubs his hands over his face. He wants to ask what they're going to do next, but this isn't the time. The pain is too fresh, the wound too raw. He doesn't trust his own capability to make decisions when he's like this. And if John and Brian, the two level heads of the group, are so far at sea, that's surely a sign to just wait.

 _It would take years._  
_Oh, ye of little faith._

John shifts in his seat, closing his eyes. "I can't drive when I'm this plastered. I'll call a cab."

"You won't get one for ages - it's pissing down outside." Brian indicates the window; sure enough, the day that had dawned so brightly has turned stormy.

_It's a metaphor, Brian._

Roger reconsiders his options. He doesn't want to be alone, but he doesn't want to be with Dom and the kids, either. After another sip from his vodka, he makes a tentative offer. "How about this? You two call home, let Ronnie and Chrissie know where you are, and I'll order something in."

Lifting an eyebrow, John inquires, "And where will we sleep?"

"Where will we pass out, more likely?" Brian replies, sounding more like himself. "Wouldn't be the first time we all ended up in an unconscious pile."

"And I can't think of a more appropriate reason," adds Roger. He sounds hopeful, the way Freddie - no, he's not going to think about that right now.

It might be a long time before the three of them are this close again. He watches, breath hitching in his chest, as John and Brian silently weigh the suggestion.

_Please. I need you. Both of you. Please.  
_

Brian smiles first, nodding enthusiastically when John suggests Italian food "with a few quarts of sauce and a tiramisu as big as Brian's head." He gets cuffed on the arm in response.                

Grinning, Roger heads for the telephone to place a ridiculous order. They'll eat and drink away the events of this shitfest. Tonight they'll collapse together, and tomorrow...

He hears laughter from the sitting room. It's a good omen. They'll heal, somehow. Even if they end up working separately their bond will remain, purer than silver, more durable than diamonds.

They'll definitely collapse together tonight, but tomorrow they'll find a way to carry on.

**Author's Note:**

> Obviously this ties in with the movie but not so much with real life.
> 
> I have a tumblr: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/lydiannode - come talk to me!


End file.
